


Stars Fill My Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester went into the Marines immediately after finishing high school. He had planned on an eight year commitment, with six years of active duty, but he only made it two and a half years in before being honorably discharged due to losing half his left leg and most of the hearing in his left ear in an explosion.<br/>Back stateside, Dean is trying to put together some sort of life in California, when he happens to walk into Wing Records and Books, and he meets Castiel Novak. They form a fragile friendship, which seems to have the potential for something more.<br/>A story about recovery, friendship, courage, family, and above all, love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first major fanfic. The way it's planned out right now, it will be probably be over 50,000 words. Agh. Title is from Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir", and bear with me on errors because no one has edited this except for me. That being said, if you spot any, please tell me! Also, I do not have PTSD nor have I been to therapy, so all of my info on that is gleaned from the Internet. If I have things wrong or unrealistic, call me out on that!  
> Also, as a giant warning: this may not update quickly. Scratch that. This will not update quickly. Hopefully, next chapter in a fortnight. Maybe two. I don't know.  
> Also, more characters will be added to the tags as they appear, I plan on having a fairly large cast. Oh, I'm on tumblr: casflies.tumblr.com
> 
> Okay, well, here you go!

All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground   
And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land   
Trying to find, trying to find where I've been

"Kashmir" Led Zeppelin

It’s been three weeks since Dean got home from the hospital. He knows that he’s surprised Sam with his attitude towards his leg. His leg fucking aches all the time, and he gets that phantom limb shit, but he’s put up a good front. Sam has finally stopped hovering over him all the time. Dean doesn’t really do much, just watches bad television and stays in bed. He gets up when Sam is around, to keep up the illusion of good mental health and all that.

Outside, he’s the same old Dean.

Inside, he’s a goddamn mess.

He lives with Sam for two months after he gets home from the hospital, and then he finds himself an apartment and moves out. He picked this apartment specifically because it’s cheap, clean, and seemed like he wouldn’t have even weird neighbors. There’s a record store and a tiny diner down the street where he meets Sam every Saturday for lunch.

Dean doesn’t eat much, or sleep much, or go out much. He orders takeout and pizzas in when he does eat, and avoids the eyes of the delivery people when they bring his food. His apartment isn’t exactly in tip top shape, and neither is he. He’s lost a lot of weight since he got back, and the whole not-sleeping thing doesn’t exactly contribute to his physical well being. Dark, bruised looking half circles are permanent residents beneath his eyes, and his cheekbones are sharp and his eyes hollow.

He smokes too much and he drinks too much. He watches soaps and medical dramas and cartoons, and tries not to think. When he does fall asleep, he wakes up shouting, which causes his neighbors to panic the first couple of times, until Dean explains.

Dean passes out on a Friday night with a bottle held slackly in his grip. He hadn’t gotten much sleep at all on Thursday, and he’d had to go out and get cigarettes and Jack, he’d left his prosthesis on.

He’s woken up by someone shaking him and yelling, and it puts him on an instant high alert, and he jumps off the couch and grabs the larger adversary by the neck.

“Dean!” His name penetrates the haze of adrenaline, and Dean blinks and loosens his hold.

“Sam?” Dean asks, confused. This is the desert--Sam’s back home--Sam’s safe--this is Iraq--“Holy shit.” Dean drops his hand and sits down heavily on the couch. He buries his face in his hands, and he can’t stop shaking.

Sam sits down next to him on the couch, their sides nearly touching, but Sam’s not quite sure how to handle this. He hadn’t realized how bad it was.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean swears violently under his breath, his voice splintering.

Sam avoids looking at his brother, unwilling to watch him fall apart. He looks instead around the small living room, which is strewn with takeout containers, most of which are only half-eaten, beer cans filled with cigarette butts, and empty and not-so-empty bottles. Sam turns back towards Dean, who is in a similar state. He smells like smoke and sweat and stale alcohol, which is awful when combined with the rotten stench emanating from the pizza box half under the couch. Sam places a hand gingerly on Dean’s shoulder, worried that his brother might panic again.

“Hey, why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make some breakfast? We don’t have to go to Ervin’s.” Sam suggested, gently. Dean nods without looking up, and then stands and walks silently out of the room towards the bathroom. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, knows his gait is still uneven and jerky. He hasn’t exactly been keeping up with his physical therapy. He locks the door behind him and drops his clothes to the floor, then sits down on the edge of the tub and takes off his prosthetic, which he also drops to the floor.

He maneuvers himself onto the chair he’d placed in the shower for this very reason, and turns the water on.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean limps into the kitchen, wearing clean sweatpants and a ratty Led Zeppelin shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Sam is frying eggs, he must’ve run out to the store and gotten some because Dean sure as hell didn’t have any.

Dean sits down at the table carefully, rubs his fingers over the scarred wood. He and Sam had gone to the Goodwill and picked up a table, and chairs, and the shitty couch in the living room, which had all been shoved into the back of Sam’s pickup.

Sam’s standing at the stove, back to Dean, when he speaks.

“Are we going to talk about this?” He asks, and Dean frowns.

Sam turns around. “Dean.”

“Sam.”

Sam sighs, and the look in his eyes tears Dean to shreds. He twists his hands together, fingertips catching on old calluses. He tells himself he can handle his issues, his baggage from the war, but he could never handle anyone else hurting because of his own pain.

“I don’t think this is working, Dean. I know you passed your psych test after your discharge, hear me out,” Sam says, after Dean opens his mouth to respond. “But I think you should see someone.”

“I don’t need to ‘see’ someone.” Dean says, shoulders tight. “I’m dealing.”

“This isn’t dealing.” Sam says, gesturing to the apartment. “Do you even leave your

apartment aside from meeting me on Saturdays?”

“Actually, I do. Dick.” Dean growls, pushing himself up out of the chair. “Maybe I’ll fucking go out right now.” He grabs his keys off the counter, and his coat off the back of the couch. Dean has to stop and sit down to get his boots on, which interrupts his angry walk-out, and allows Sam to corner him in the living room.

“Dean, please. Can you just listen?” Sam asks, staring down at his older brother, and feeling rather strange. Sam had always had Dean watching out for him, and now things were reversed.

Dean drops his boot on the floor and looks up at Sam.

“Fine. Fine. But at least sit down so I don’t feel like a goddamn garden gnome.” Dean snaps, pulling his boot off. Sam tries not to stare at Dean’s plastic foot, which he still isn’t quite used to. Dean had a sock on it earlier, but it must have come off inside his boot. Sam moves a pile of trash and a stained t-shirt off the only other chair in the room, and sits down.

“I think you should join a group, or ma--”

“I am not spilling my guts to a bunch of weirdos in a circle.” Dean cuts in, scowling down at the floor.

“How about just one?”

“Oh, like a shrink?”

“A psychiatrist.” Sam says, leveling his gaze at Dean.

“Oh, real nice, Sammy.” Dean snarled.

“This isn’t healthy, Dean. How much weight have you lost? And don’t think I don’t know you started smoking again.” Sam says, leaning forward in his chair. “And there are emptys everywhere, so don’t tell me that you’re ‘dealing’.”  Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose before he finally answers.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He says.

“Fine. But will you at least go to an appointment? The hospital has therapists you can see.” Sam explains, Dean realizes that Sam has been doing some research. Looks like he hadn’t been as good at hiding the cracks as he’d thought he’d been. “There’s a peer led group, a therapist led--”

“I’m not going to some ‘support’ group to listen to people whine about their problems.”

Sam sighs. “Okay, no groups. But I’m making you an appointment with one of their psychiatrists, and I’m going to pick you up, and you’re going to go.”

Dean throws up his hands. “Well, why don’t you fucking live my life for me, too?”

“Have you even been going to your PT?” Sam asks, eyeing Dean’s left leg. Dean follows Sam’s gaze, and glares. “Dean.”

“No, I fucking haven’t, Sam.” Dean growls.

“You’re going to those, too, then. I’m going to drive you there.” Sam says, and stands up from his chair. “And now I’m going to finish making breakfast.”  Dean doesn’t say anything, just sinks back into the couch and listens to Sam banging around the kitchen. An knot of pain is starting to form behind his forehead. He can feel a headache coming on strong.

Sam appears with two plates, each with two fried eggs, half an orange, and toast. It...actually looks halfway good to Dean.

“Thanks.” He grunts, and takes the offered plate from Sam. He begins to eat, conscious of Sam’s worried eyes watching his every bite. He manages half an egg, a piece of toast, and the orange, before setting the plate on the end table. Sam frowns, but says nothing.

Dean wipes his hands on his pants, and looks around for the remote,

“You wanna watch something? Or just stare at each other until you figure out something else to jump down my throat about?” Dean asks, pulling the remote from between the couch cushions.

Sam makes a disapproving face, and Dean turns the TV on. He flips through channels until he finds Doctor Sexy MD, and settles there.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You just think Dr. Sexy’s sexy.”

“Shut the hell up.”  Dean snaps, but there’s far less malice in his tone than there was earlier.

It’s familiar territory, ragging on each other. Comforting, even.

They sit in Dean’s crappy living room and watch two and a half episodes of Doctor Sexy, with Sam making fun of Dean for telling the characters what to do (“They can’t hear you, Dean!” “I fuckin’ know that, Sam!”) until Sam gets up to leave because he can’t take any more Doctor Sexy.

“I’m gonna take off, Dean. I’ll call you about that appointment, okay?” Sam says, pulling on his coat. Dean shoves himself up from the couch and walks over to the door.

“Yeah, fine.” He says, and Sam sighs.

“I think it’ll help.” Sam says, and Dean resists rolling his eyes. Sam has his earnest face on. “I just want you to get better.”

Dean hugs him to try and get him to shut up. “I know, Sammy.” He says into Sam’s shoulder.

Sam pulls back and looks hard at Dean. Dean fidgets.

“Don’t be stupid.” He finally says, and opens the door. “Bye, Dean.”

“Bye.” Dean says, as Sam pulls the door shut. He stares at his closed front door for a beat, and then turns and shuffles back to the couch. He sits down, swings his legs up onto the couch, and takes off his prosthesis. Dean refuses to be without it when there’s people around, even when it’s making his stump ache like it is today.  He really shouldn’t have passed out with it on, wearing it for too long always makes it sore.

Dean grabs his pack of cigarettes off the end table, and his lighter, and lights one. He knew Sam would be all over it if Dean had smoked while he was here. He takes a drag, and then blows smoke out of his nose. The TV is on a commercial about medication for acid reflux. Dean smokes and stares blankly at the TV.

The next day around eleven, Sam calls and tells Dean that he got an appointment for him at the VA, and that Dean should be ready at 3:30 on Wednesday. Dean complains and snarls, but finally sullenly agrees and hangs up.

Wednesday rolls around far sooner than it should, the week passing in a haze of cigarette smoke and Jack Daniels.

Sam knocks on his door at 3 o'clock, clearly anticipating Dean being stubborn.

He's not wrong.

"Fucking hell, Sam. I'm not going."

"Dean--"

"I'm handling it, okay? I'm fine."

"That's the biggest fucking lie I've heard from you since sixth grade." Sam snarls, finally getting angry. "Dean, you goddamn idiot, you are going to this appointment if I have to fucking drag you there."

"I'd like to see you try." Dean snaps, turning away from Sam.

"Please, Dean." Sam pleads, and Dean looks at him, which was a pretty fucking bad decision, because Sam's eyes are all watery and he looks like he's about to start really crying.

"Fuck."

"We need to go."

"Okay." Dean says, all the fight gone from him. He never could stand to see his little brother cry.

The walk to the car is silent. Dean scuffs his feet along the sidewalk, his stomach has begun rolling nervously in anticipation.

"When's the last time you talked to Dad?" Sam asks as soon as Dean gets into the car.

"What?"

“When's the las-"

Dean cuts in. "No, I mean, why?"

"Dean, he's our dad."

"What's your point?" Dean snaps, looking away from Sam.

"Well, maybe you should call him." Sam suggests, and flicks on the turn signal to swing into the hospital parking lot.

"Why the fuck would I do that?"

Sam frowns. "Maybe because he was in Vietnam?"

"He didn't lose his goddamn leg."

"I know. But maybe you could talk--"

"Not a chance in hell, Sammy." Dean snarls, glaring resolutely out the window. Sam parked the car and turned to Dean.

"Okay, fine." Sam said. "But you're not going to be a dick to whichever therapist draws the short straw and ends up with you today."

"I'll do whatever the hell I want." Dean said, fingers itching for a cigarette.

Sam sighs. "Behave yourself."

Dean climbs out of the car and flips Sam the bird as he stalks towards the hospital. Sam rolls the passenger side window down.

"I'll be back in a hour and a half!" He hollers.

Dean turns around to glare and flip Sam off again. He is 24 years old, he shouldn't have his kid brother yelling pickup times after him like some soccer mom. Dean pauses in front of the doors, looks up at the overcast sky. He sighs softly before pushing open the door and going inside.

"Hello! How can I help you today?" A woman asks from behind the low counter. Dean walks over to her, conscious of his lopsided gait.

"Um, I have an appointment with....shit, I don't actually know." He coughs. "It's in the psych wing or whatever."

"Okay, you'll need to go down hall H, an then it's will be the second hall on your left. It's labelled!" She says, smiling kindly at Dean. He grunts a 'thanks', and starts towards hall H.

He walks into the psychiatric clinic, which looks utterly mundane. Dean doesn't quite know what he expected. But tan walls, dark carpeting, two receptionists, and a handful of people in the waiting area wasn't quite it.

Dean walks somewhat awkwardly up to the check in counter. The receptionist (his name tag says Joshua) looks up at him.

"Uh, I have an appointment."

"Name and date of birth, please." Joshua says, hands poised at the keyboard.

“Dean Winchester. January 24th, 1990."

"Okay, Dean, you'll be seeing Dr. Lafitte. You can have a seat, he's running a bit behind." Joshua says, gesturing to the waiting room.

Dean nods, and then he sits down in the corner.

He flips through a magazine, too quickly to read any of it, too nervous to pay attention to the articles.

About ten minutes later, a slim woman with a clipboard calls Dean's name. He stands up and follows the woman down a short hall. She opens a door and  waves Dean inside.

Inside is a simple oak desk, a comfortable looking couch, and an overstuffed armchair. There is no Dr. Lafitte in sight.

Dean looks around, and then he sits down gingerly on the couch.

Not quite five minutes later, the door opens and a tall, burly, bear of a man walks in. He spots Dean sitting stiffly on the couch, and smiles, extending a hand.

"Dr. Benjamin Lafitte. You Mr. Winchester?" Dean stands up and shakes Dr. Lafitte's hand.

"Name's Dean."

"You might as well call me Benny, so long as we're on first name terms."

Dr. Lafitte-no, Benny, sits down in the armchair to the left of Dean. "What brings you in here today?"

"My brother forced me." Dean said, unwilling to offer much of anything.

Benny chuckled. "Can't say you're the first one to get forced here by family." Dean manages to lift one corner of his mouth in a mockery of a smile. He's too jittery to do much else.

"Okay, Dean. How old is your brother?"

"He's twenty. Prelaw at Stanford, smartest kid I know." Dean says, trying desperately to get his good leg to stop jiggling up and down. He's too nervous to sit still, and he's starting to feel queasy, even though Benny hasn't done or said anything to set him off.

"Do you live with him?" Benny asks.

"Not right now. I did for a while after I got discharged. I moved out, Jess moved in."

"Jess?"

"Sammy's girlfriend." Dean said, twisting his hands together in his lap.

"You got anybody?" Benny asks, glancing towards a frame on his desk.

"No, I don't. You?"

"Andrea. Been married nine years, got ourselves two little girls who run us both ragged, but I love them." Benny says, with a soft look on his face. Dean's panicky feeling is starting to subside and then Benny gets Dean talking about sports and then his car and before Dean quite knows what's happening, their hour is up and he's shaking Benny's hand and saying "Yep, see you next week".

Dean walks out of Benny's office and heads down the hall towards the main entrance, where Sam said he'd wait.

The receptionist smiles at him as he leaves, and Dean spots Sam's nasty Corolla in the parking lot.

He walks across the lot to Sam, and gets into the passenger side. Sam turns to him expectantly. Dean says nothing.

"Well?" Sam asks.

"Well what?"

Sam makes a frustrated noise. "How did it go?"

"Fine. Benny's actually kind of cool. I guess. For a shrink." Dean says, pawing at the radio until he finds a station he approves of.

Sam grins. "That's great, Dean!"

"Shut up." Dean mumbles, half-heartedly. It wasn't nearly as bad as he had thought it was going to be. The ride home is quiet, but a pleasant sort of quiet, and Sam doesn't even complain when Black Dog comes on and Dean cranks the volume.

Sam drops Dean off at his apartment.

"I'd come up, but I have a class in twenty." He says, and Dean nods.

"Gotta get an education, eh, bitch?"

"Shut the hell up, jerk." Sam says, but there is no malice in it. He smiles again and drives away.

Dean makes his way up the sidewalk to the building, where he lets himself in and heads to the mail room to check his box.

There's nothing, as expected. He locks it again and turns around to go out, only to come face to face with Gabriel, the excitable baker who lives in #8.

"Hey, Deano!" Gabe says, looking up at him.

"Hi, Gabriel." Dean replies, and tries to squeeze past Gabe without touching him.

"Hey, wait a sec--" Gabriel grabs Dean's shoulder unexpectedly, causing Dean to have a moment of panic and jerk away from Gabe. He stares at Dean quizzically  for a moment before continuing. "I'm having a little get together to taste test some of my new recipes and I'd be honored if you'd join us."

Dean stares at him blankly.

"Tomorrow night around 6? At my apartment. Number eight." Gabriel continues.

“Umm--"

"Come on, it'll be fun." Gabe says, grinning.

"Okay." Dean concedes.

"Excellent!" Gabriel says, rubbing his hands together. He walks away muttering something about winning a bet, but Dean doesn't hear him.

Dean walks up two flights of stairs to his apartment, wincing with every other step by the time he reaches the top. His stump is particularly achy today, especially after wearing his prosthesis all day. Maybe he should go to PT like Sam said.

He flops onto the couch once he gets inside his apartment, and shoves his jeans up so he can get his leg off.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, so it took longer than i had thought it would to write this chapter. the next one will take even longer, for sure, because i'm going to England for two weeks (!!!!!), but the next one will also FINALLY have CASTIEL. hopefully, the next one will also be longer than this one. thanks for reading!!!

And I ain’t been sleeping  
And I’m tired as hell  
And I stare at the ceiling  
And talk to myself  
"The Calm and the Crying Wind" Trampled by Turtles

Dean drops his prosthesis to the floor, and clicks the TV on. He massages his stump gently with one hand and flips through channels with the other. There’s some sort of Spanish soap marathon happening, so he leaves it on that channel, and zones out a little. He’s starting to get sort of anxious about going to Gabriel’s tomorrow. He doesn’t know the guy that well, just from passing in the halls or the mailroom. And there’s bound to be too many people crammed into the apartment, which always makes him nervous. There’s a paper takeout menu on the armrest of the couch, which Dean consults. He’s not that hungry, though, and resumes staring at the television aimlessly.

His thoughts soon wander back to Gabe’s gathering tomorrow, and the anxious feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. He hardly knows Gabe, and he won’t know anyone else, and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

Things used to be different, Dean used to be so much more confident. The worst part is that he knows it, and wishes he could get that ‘I don’t give a fuck’ swagger back. He guesses that it’s hard to swagger with only 1 ¾ legs. He glances down, only to realize that he’s been shredding the takeout menu into confetti.

“Shit.” He mutters, and brushes the paper scraps off his legs. They flutter to the floor, lying there among the dust and other random detritus. Dean is tired. He hasn’t actually been out and about like this in weeks, hasn't talked to anyone save for Sammy, and the occasional grunted greeting to a tenant in the hall. He’s worn out, which is stupid, and makes him feel worse, because this should be easy. It used to be easy. Well, maybe not easy, not with John Winchester for a father, but it was never this exhausting.

Dean slides down from his seated position to lying down. He watches the stupid soap for a while, not really following what’s going on, and before he knows it, he’s fallen asleep.

Sleep is not peaceful for Dean. It’s fire, and smoke, and screaming. There’s blood, and there’s Dean being flung through the air after trying to get to Kevin, and then he can’t feel his fucking leg, and someone’s screaming again. Then Dean figures out that he’s the one screaming. Everything goes dark. But then he wakes up, yelling and gasping for breath.

He can’t stop shaking, and he’s drenched in cold sweat. He peels his shirt off, and uses it to dry his face and torso off before slinging it into the corner. Dean fumbles for his lighter and cigarettes, which are still in his pockets from earlier. He locates his phone as well, and checks the time. It’s 3:37 am. It’s also the longest he’s slept in weeks. At least since he’d burned through all the pain meds way too fast and his doctor refused to refill his prescription.

His hands are still shaking way too much to get a cigarette lit, although he does manage to get one out of the pack. Fuck, he needs a smoke. Dean tries again, but he can’t get his stupid lighter to cough up a flame long enough to get his cigarette lit.

Finally, he gets the damn thing lit, and takes a long drag, exhaling the smoke in a quiet sigh. His lungs feel like they’re three sizes too small, and he can’t quite get a full breath, but he imagines the smoke expanding inside them until they’re normal again, and that seems to help. Dean feels like shit, but it’s not like that’s unusual. He taps the ash off his cigarette into an empty can. He can still hear the screaming, and he can’t take it any longer.

Dean locates his remote and turns the TV to the classic rock channel and cranks the volume way too loud for this hour. He finishes one cigarette and lights the next off the butt of the previous. He ignores the knocking coming from below him. Someone is obviously displeased with his decision to blast AC/DC at this hour. Dean stares at the wall and does his best not to think.

Someone is banging on his fucking door. He turns the TV off.

“GO THE FUCK AWAY.” Dean yells, and puts his cigarette out. The banging ceases. Dean shoves the butt into the can, and sets it down on the floor. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling.

Some kind of miracle must occur during the night (or rather, the morning), because Dean wakes up normally, without gunfire or screaming. He rubs his eyes, before rolling over to examine the fabric of the couch listlessly.

Some time later, he hears his phone buzzing on the floor. He flips over and feels around for it on the carpet until he finds it, and then answers. It’s Sam.

“Hi, Dean.” Sam says. Dean tries to say hello, but his throat is too dry. He coughs.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean mumbles.

“How are you?” Sam asks, Dean hears Jess saying something in the background. “Jess says hi.”

“Hi, Jess.” Dean says, grateful for her saving him having to answer Sam’s question.

“Hold on.” Sam says, and then Dean hears Sam saying “he says hi” to Jess.

“Anyways. I’ve been doing some research--”

Dean groans.

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam says, and continues. “There’s this program that places dogs with vets, and Jess and I think you could be a pretty good candidate.”

Dean nearly drops the phone. “A dog?” He asks, incredulous. “What the hell is a fucking dog going to do?”

Sam clears his throat. “Well, it would get you out of the apartment, and dude, it’s a dog. They’re like the happiest animals ever. And I--”

“Damnit, Dean Winchester, you are a stubborn asshole.” Jess has taken the phone from Sam.

“Well hello to you too, Jessica.” Dean growls.

“Will you shut the fuck up? Just for a second.” Jess says, and Dean can hear Sam making concerned angry noises in the background.

Dean says nothing.

“Thank you.” Jess says, and takes a deep breath. “Sam is trying to help, Dean. He has no idea what you’ve been through, and neither do I. But the moron has been up late every night since Saturday, googling all sorts of shit. And that means I’ve been awake too, because he has to lay in bed with the laptop’s brightness all the way up.”

“What’s your point?” Dean asks, even though he knows exactly what her point is and he’s starting to feel kinda shitty about it.

“My point is, let him help!” Jess says, and then adds: “At least try to be less of a dick.” Dean wants to be mad. He wants to be pissed at Jess, but he can’t muster up the energy today. He sighs.

“I’ll try.” He mumbles, barely audible.

“Thank you.” Jess says, quietly, and passes the phone back to Sam.

“Dean?” Sam asks, like he thinks Dean’s hung up on him.

“Still here.” Dean says, tiredly.

“I’d apologize for her, but I’m really not sorry.” Sam says, and Dean says nothing. “What are you doing tomorrow? Do you want to get coffee with Jess and I?”

Dean thinks about this, not saying anything. Apparently, he is silent too long, because Sam starts talking again. “At 11? Or we could do lunch--we’ll pick you up.

“I’ll see you at 11, Dean. And think about a dog, okay?” Sam sighs.

“Um. Okay.”

“Bye, Dean.”

“Bye.” Dean hangs up, dropping his phone onto the floor. He sits up and locates his prosthesis. The sock is still shoved into the top of it where he left it, and he tugs that on before putting on his leg.

He heads to the bathroom, takes a piss, and walks to the kitchen. Dean stands by the fire escape and stares out into the street for a long time, just watching the cars and the people go by. He decides it would be a good time for a cigarette, and so he lights one.

Dean couldn’t really say what he does for the rest of the day. He knows he watched TV, and smoked three cigarettes, and drank a little, but not that much, but everything is kind of vague. It blends together. But it’s five thirty now, and he said he’d go to that thing that Gabe is having, and he probably needs a shower.

Dean takes a shower, puts on a pair of possibly clean jeans, and an old Ramones t-shirt. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything else, and nearly gets into bed and doesn’t go at all, but then he thinks about what Jess said earlier, and decides to try. And that’s exactly what he does, he puts on a hoodie, and grabs his keys, and goes downstairs to Gabriel’s apartment.

Standing in front of apartment #8, Dean thinks about turning around again, but forces himself to knock lightly on the door.

The door swings inward almost immediately, and Gabe is grinning up at him. “Dean! You made it! Excellent, come on in!” He says, excitedly, waving Dean through the doorway. Dean looks around the apartment immediately, unconsciously scanning for threats and mapping exit routes.

Gabe is chattering something at his elbow, but Dean’s not sure what he’s saying. The apartment is nice, Dean thinks, but it’s very claustrophobic. There’s a lot of stuff, and too much furniture for a small room. There are nine people in the living room (Dean counted), and there appear to be a few more in the kitchen.

Gabe ushers Dean to an empty chair, and Dean sits down. “Okay, guys, this is Dean. He moved in like, how many months ago?”

Dean realizes belatedly that Gabriel is expecting him to fill in the blank. “Uh, three.”

“And this is his first guinea pig party!” Gabe says, then disappears into the kitchen.

“What?” Dean asks, altogether too late to get an answer from Gabriel.

The dark haired girl sitting on the couch leans over towards Dean and says in a stage whisper: “Because we get to taste-test all his weird recipes for the cafe to make sure people actually like raspberry-mango-blackberry macarons. I’m Meg, by the way.”

“Dean.” Dean says.

Meg chuckles drily. “I got that.”

“Uhm.” It seems that Dean’s ability to make small talk had disappeared overseas with his leg. “What do you do?”

“I’m a nurse in the psych ward of Glenwood General.” Meg says, examining her fingernails. “What about you?” Dean had hoped she wouldn’t ask.

He coughs. “Unemployed.”

“What, handsome young man like you can’t find a job?” Meg says, raising an eyebrow. “What was your last job?” Dean has to think about it.

“I flipped burgers at McDonald’s in high school.” He says, and realizes that he has next to no real world skills. He can assemble a gun in no time, and dig a foxhole, and watch his guys’ backs in danger zones, but none of those things would be helpful in the workplace.

“You just graduate or something?” The guy sitting next to Meg cuts in. He’d been involved in another conversation previously.

“No.” Dean says, and looks at his hands.

“Well, then you rich or something?” The guy asks. “I’d like some of that if you are. You can make the check out to Tom.”

“This is my moronic brother.” Meg says, rolling her eyes. Dean manages a tight smile, and nods. He’s starting to feel a little sick.

“I’m not rich.” Dean mutters.

“Oh, you aren’t?” Tom says. “Shame. I need rent money.” This statement sets Meg off on him, because apparently he didn’t have it last month either. Dean is left sitting there quietly, until Gabriel reemerges from the kitchen and tells Dean to come with him. Dean stands up and follows Gabe into the kitchen, where the table is laden with a variety of sweets.

“Try something. No one’s touched my fucking bumbleberry pie yet, and I don’t know why.” Gabe says, as he dishes up a slice of the pie for Dean.

“Do you read minds?” Dean asks, as he takes the pie and proffered fork.

Gabriel only laughs. The kitchen is far more pleasant in Dean’s eyes than the living room, there’s only three other people in here, and the fire escape is easily accessible.

“This is Jake, and Lily.” Gabe says. “Jake, Lily, this is Dean. He lives upstairs.”

“Hi.” Jake says, and Dean’s not an idiot, he can recognize military when he sees it, and he knows Jake recognizes it in him.

“What branch?”

“Army. You?”

“Marines.” Dean says, and then he is very conscious of Gabriel’s eyes on him.

“I’m on leave. Gabe and I go way back, so I’m staying with him for a bit. What about you?”

Dean frowns briefly. “I was honorably discharged. Almost eight months ago now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jake says, not looking particularly sorry, only curious. “Can I ask why?”

“You can.” Dean says, tone laced with annoyance.

Jake scowls. Gabe claps his hands together and says: “Well, Deano, I had no idea you were ex-military!”

“I am.” Dean mutters, and takes a bite of his pie. The pie is fantastic. He says as much to Gabriel, who beams.

Dean moves slightly away from Jake, and Lily, who hasn't said a word to him, to lean against the doorway between kitchen and living room. He makes sure he can keep an eye on both the kitchen and living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it doesn't end at the best spot, but i really wanted to get it posted. thanks for reading!!


End file.
